


He came back

by manxeau



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 10:33:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3647061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manxeau/pseuds/manxeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After 5x11: Ian is fighting with himself over what is the right thing to do. Mickey knows what he has to do, because this just can't happen again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He came back

**Author's Note:**

> This may possibly be triggering, since it adresses what happened between Ian and Mickey in the past season and especially the last episodes.  
> It tries to do so in a constructive and "helpful" way, because that's what I needed after the last episodes and with the looming spoilers for the finale.
> 
> To be safe: tw homophobic slurs, tw domestic abuse, tw violence, tw rape, tw adultery

His fingers are crawled deeply into the warm fur; it’s a bit dirty, but still so so soft. His head is hurting and for once there are no racing thoughts distracting him. He feels like they have been driving on the truck for hours now, but it can’t have been very far. 

_Tanja’s Private Antiques, 100 yards._ The same brown old sign had read 2 miles shortly after they got on the truck. So… not very far at all. 

There aren’t one hundred different things on his mind right now like before. Before. When everything was always jumbled up and rolling around in his brain. Sometimes it had been – bright red, freshly spurted from a volcano, plans and dreams of how he could succeed and do something with himself, help all the people in the world, be the happiest one of them, fixing it all, partying, dancing, enjoying himself. A red hot mess of freedom that was warming him through and through. What was getting burned a little in comparison to that feeling? And then – then it had been a thick, brown and grey, pasty wall of mud building up around him, not being good enough, AWOL, dirty stripper, fucking everything up, sure as hell never an officer, not even there for his family or anyone, leaving all of them behind for nothing. 

Right now his mind is empty. He knows what is going to happen. Leaving all of them again to be free and himself with Monica. He was doing them a goddamn favor. He doesn’t think of anyone in particular, doesn’t see their faces in front of his eyes. What good would it do? 

Next to him Monica is chatting away with that other guy sitting on the truck. She is stroking wild patterns on the backside of the dog. Laughing and telling stories. 

_Tanja’s Private Antiques._ The sign over the place itself is just as old and brown, he doesn’t see anyone in the store and it either isn’t open at all or very dimly lit. Hell, maybe it is Sunday and closed by default. Or it is taking a break. Whatever. He nods to himself and looked to the other side of the road. 

The dog’s eyes catch his and the giant seems to be raising a furry brow in question. Probably just waiting for more patting and less cold hands cramping on his neck. 

He closes his eyes and exhales. His mind is blank and the wind is whooshing over his skin. But is this clarity or insanity? And still – what good would it do? 

***** 

“Oh yeah, _now_ you are afraid and all sorry and feeling bad for the fucking snitch?” Mickey is pissed the fuck off. He is standing in the girl’s room, two inches from a silly band-poster on the door. 

“Mickey…” her breath is hitching. “She’s dead. Sammi is dead.” 

“Yeah, Debbie. You got it. Was there a happy ending to your plan that had a car battery on her fucking nipples? I’m so sorry it didn’t work out that way.” He’s crossing his arms over his chest. _Pissed the fuck off._

“I… I don’t know. I mean, of course… I was angry and –” That hitch in her breath again. Tears in her eyes. This strange, stupid kid. “It’s just… this is – too much, you know? I…” She huffs and jumps off her bed. Coming for the door, with the poster, the one his back is leaning against. “Let me out. I need the bathroom. Let’s just stop talking about this.” She averts her eyes, inching closer, trying to get by. 

“No.” 

“Mickey.” Whining, accusing, angry. 

“Sit the fuck down!” 

And she does, sits down again, arms folded just like him. Jaw set tight and staring ahead blankly. 

“That bitch wasn’t dead, okay? Believe me, I know how to check a frickin’ pulse, alright? She’ll wake up in her box with her stuff and freak out. And then she’ll leave the thing or get to the place she wanted to move to or – whatever. Man, maybe she dies in that dump after all. She wasn’t dead when we put her in there.” 

Debbie looks at him now, eyebrows raised. _As if. Stop talking shit, Mickey._

“But you know what: I think she’ll live. A cockroach like that doesn’t just die on some roofies. Now get the hell over it. You wanted to fuck her up, Milkovich-Style. Be happy we went with my plan, shipping her off as soon as possible with a little scare on the side.” 

“Are you being serious? She’s not dead?” 

“No, Debbie. She’s not dead.” And he can see how she starts breathing again. In a regular rhythm. She’s nodding. He turns to leave the room but can still see her nodding in his peripheral vision. 

***** 

“… and then there was this cop, he had a huge beard. Holding me down on the car by my wrists…” – “… I was on acid, the best trip I have ever had, believe me.” – “There’s this crazy little diner at the street corner, the owner knew my friend, we told them I was her sister, and so he let me crash there for a few nights, I’m serious there was never a…” 

His eyes are still closed, he breathes in and out. 

“Hey, Ian. Is everything okay?” 

He nods and even opens his eyes for a second or two. To reassure her. _It’s all good._ Closes them again and smiles faintly in her direction. 

He’s shivering. At first he didn’t notice, but he can feel it from how his hand moves in the fur. He turns his head and blinks. He doesn’t see their faces if he tries hard enough not to. All of the eyes. Worried, afraid of him and what he might do next. They don’t understand. Maybe what they are doing is trying to help. But it isn’t helping. He blinks and blinks. He doesn’t know where they are. What city are they even in? Was that military prison in Chicago? Everything is a haze. 

He watches the signs again. _Tanja’s Private Antiques_ has been his favorite so far. And then there it is. Small, under a bigger sign with more directions. 

_Central Station._ He shuts his eyes again. _Central Station._ He’ll just have to try harder. Not see their faces, their eyes. _Mick-_ Eyes shut, shut, shut. He breathes quick for a few seconds, pressing his lids down, shutting it all off, turning away. No faces, nothing. There is nothing on his mind. Be free and himself. Do them a favor and stay away. Don’t steal babies, take a role in some porno, jerk some random asshole off with a baby in tow. Don’t disappoint everyone. Just go. Be free and himself. 

_Central Station._

And then he bangs his uninjured fist to the dirver’s cab. “Hey!” 

“Ian, what-” Monica’s voice is confused, he has interrupted her in one of her glorious stories. 

The truck stops and the driver cranes his neck out of the window. “What is it, kid?” 

“I have to get off. Sorry, Monica, mom. You can come with me – if you want. Whatever. I have to get off. This is just – I’m so sorry.” He shakes his head. 

His mother takes his hand and squeezes it. Crying. “O-okay, baby. Call me.” 

***** 

He is sitting on Ian’s bed. That small piece of shit. He’s fingering the fabric, stroking over it lightly. Pushing the heels of his hands to his eyes. Not crying. Oh no. Then he shakes his head. No _way_ is he going to be a fucking pussy again. That’s how Mandy had put it a long time ago. That had been her being nice. 

He takes his phone out, calls Fiona and Lip. Then he stands up and bangs on Debbie’s door. “We’re meeting in your dirty kitchen at 5. Be there.” Then he storms out and spends the next two hours on the steps in front of the house, smoking. 

“This is not happening again, I’m telling you. Not a second fucking time! Don’t you remember what it was like – when we found him. Lip or me, or whoever it was that really found him in that club, completely drugged up. Because I sure as hell remember that shit!” 

They are quiet. Fiona says: “Yes, I remember, Mickey, but-” 

“Oh? _You_ remember, you of all people? Fuck you, seriously. You thought he would come back and then everything would go back to normal the first time he left? Well, it didn’t. Everything went to shit! It can only get worse this time. Isn’t that what you have been trying to tell me these past months?” He looks at them. Waiting. But nothing comes. 

Lip’s staring at him, Fiona on the ground and Debbie on her fingernails. 

“How _shitty_ it would all get? I get it now, okay. So we have to find him, as soon as possible. Get him committed, search for some program or some shit where he can go, whatever.” 

“Mickey, he needs to figure it out on his own, man. We can’t just _make_ him. It won’t help, believe us – ” Lip tries to intervene here, _knowing everything_ again. Of course. 

“No. You know what? When you tell me how bad it can get – I’ll listen to you. But if your goddamn mother is going to be mentioned every single time here. Then listen to me: Whatever you guys did to help her – we won’t do the same with Ian. Hasn’t helped her, has it?” 

They are quiet. Don’t say anything. 

“Oh yeah, the Gallaghers, huh? One big, happy family? Fuck you!” 

He storms out of the front door, stomps down the stairs and kicks the fence. One, two, three times. 

Then he starts walking, thinking, planning. No clue. Not a single idea. 

***** 

He got on some train to Chicago. Asked a nice-looking lady at the helpdesk. It’s a miracle that he was able to follow her instructions. At least he thinks he did that. Maybe he is shipping himself off to god-knows-where right now and has fucked up even more. He thinks he got on the right train. 

Of course, getting arrested over fare-dodging would fit perfectly into the cynical piece of trash that his life is right now. Well… he will see. 

His mind is full of shit again. Not calm, empty, blank, quiet anymore. Not at all. He doesn’t care. He cares about things, cares about people. Maybe everyone’s head is full of shit all the time. Shit that’s probably a bit slower paced, less corrective rape, baby kidnapping, pimp-loving, family-abandoning shit. He’ll concede to that. But still – full of all the shit going on. Maybe even just as helpless. At least it’s not quiet and empty. 

The landscape, houses and train stations trot by, repeating themselves over and over again. He still doesn’t know how far he has gone. Maybe this is the L and he is just going two stations back to his shitty home on the South Side. Maybe he’s crossing state borders. 

He could check the time on his phone. But taking out his phone is not an option. He’s waiting for the computer voice calling a station that sounds familiar. He’ll leave the train and find some way home. 

***** 

He takes out his phone. He’s in an alleyway, two blocks from the Alibi. He didn’t leave the Neighbourhood. Where would he go? He doesn’t know where to look, what to do, where to go. 

_When u come up w some plan – tell us & we’ll help._ Fiona. Alright, whatever. 

So – come up with some plan. 

He sighs. Presses the number that’s still on speed dial. Voicemail. 

“Hey – Mandy. How are you? Uh… things are onehundred percent fucked here. You aren’t missing out, I can tell you. … Listen. Ian has been taken in by the army for going AWOL and shit. Was released, though. Took off with his fucking mother. So – I don’t know. If you have some kind of insight where the fuck she might take him or anything – call me back. … Call me back anyways, shithead.” 

Leaving whiney voicemails. _I’m worried about you. I love you. – Fucking faggot._ His favorite pastime these days. Great. 

He doesn’t care, though. Can’t care right now. He will find that asshole and get him some goddamn help. And then – he doesn’t know what will happen then. Doesn’t matter. 

***** 

1955\. This house. He hates it, he loves it. At least he really did find it and didn’t end up in Mexico. 

It’s empty. He hasn’t even gone in yet, but he knows it’s empty. No Terry, no Mickey, no Yevgeny, Svetlana, not even one of Mickey’s idiot brothers will be there. He just knows. 

He opens the door, his first glance to the couch, then the kitchen. This place is the worst. Guns and booze everywhere, trash lying around, dirty dishes all over the place as well. _The worst_. 

He goes to the bedroom, Mickey’s bedroom, Mickey and his’ bedroom. Whatever. A few drawings on the walls, he stole some glances at them when Mickey was out of the house. Why did he put them up, when he started shouting as soon as Ian got near them? Posters of bands that no one should ever listen to. 

So he went home, huh? He laughs a little. What a fucked up thing that he didn’t even think of going to his house. But he knew it wouldn’t have been empty. It would have been full of people. Afraid, worried, angry, accusing siblings. 

He takes out his phone now, finally. Ignores the messages that he missed as well as all the phone calls. There is someone who hasn’t called. With good reason. 

“Yes? What do you want?” 

“Nothing. I – wanted to say that I’m sorry, okay?” 

Silence on the other end. Nothing. 

“I get that you are angry and everything. You have every right to.” 

“I know I do. And I am. Fuck you, idiot!” 

“How is Yevgeny? Where are you?” 

“At Kevin’s house. Yevy’s fine. Is that all?” 

“Do you think I could see him some time?” 

“I don’t know. Are you still crazy?” 

Ian sighs. “Please.” 

“Don’t think I will leave him with you or – ” 

“No, no of course not, I get it. Really. I’ll call you again, maybe we can meet tomorrow, wherever you want, I –” 

“Stop talking. Call tomorrow and we meet. Where are you?” 

“Uh… home. You should come, too. If you want.” 

“We see. Not now.” 

And that was it. She hung up. 

***** 

_Idiot boyfriend is at the house. Sounds crazy on phone._

Mickey stares long and hard… _What??_

_Stupid like always. Go there._

What, what, what. 

***** 

He pushes the door open and goes in. He’s afraid. Even though this is his own fucking place. 

He hears footsteps from the bedroom and yes – he is here. 

They don’t meet in the middle of the room, they only go towards each other. Stop with at least three yards still left between them. 

“So you left again, huh?” He is so angry all of a sudden. Afraid and angry. He didn’t notice before, but maybe that’s just because he’s _always_ afraid and angry. 

Ian doesn’t respond. “I came back.” 

He nods with his hands clenched to fists at his sides. “I can see that. How long will you stay this time?” 

Ian blinks, eyes stinging with hurt. Mickey knows that face so well. 

“I won’t leave again. I’m not Monica, okay. I – I’m sorry. All the shit that I put you through. Like Fiona said. I put you through hell, just like Monica did. But… but I’m not her, I – ” 

“Shut the fuck up! I know you’re not your goddamn mother, okay?” 

Ian nods, taken aback. “Okay… good, I-” 

“I told you to shut up.” Mickey sighs. Turns around. And back again. 

“That doesn’t mean you’re not bipolar. All the shit that you pulled. That’s not you. Of course you’re you, but it wasn’t just you. If it was, then I will have to strangle you to death. I have thought about it often enough, I mean-” He laughs. Sharp and angry. “The porno, really? The kid? Calling me a goddamn faggot after – ” 

Ian’s lip is quivering, he just stares and waits. 

“After years of you talking my ear off. Wanting me to kiss you, wanting to be boyfriends, wanting me to come out to – to everyone. And then, there we are. Out. In a relationship. And I’m the faggot for making you take your meds. How fucked up is that? You want me to kill someone, take out some gun, get a knife and cut you? I’m a Milkovich, right? _Southside trash, at its finest._ ” 

“I – I’m sorry. I don’t know what-” 

Mickey just glares. _I told you to shut up._

“The craziest thing. _I know_ you’re sorry. I’m not the only one who got screwed here. You did, too. All the shit that we’ve been through. I’m not some idiot. I get this. You were angry, leashing out, all that shit.” 

Ian’s shoulders are slumped, he’s examining the floor with short glimpses at Mickey. 

“So. You’re bipolar, you’re gay, leaving all the fucking time. But not your mother?” 

“No, I – ” 

“I already said that I know you aren’t. Which is why you will fucking stay this time, take your pills and try to work this shit out. And go to fucking therapy. If you don’t do it on your own, I will make you go.” 

Ian sets on to answer, but he is still being told _shut up_ by Mickey’s glare. 

“I could tell you to decide. To go to therapy and stay. Or to go and leave but never come back. Because one thing I know. I will not be fucking Frank either. Your sisters have pissed me off with this shit just as much. I won’t wait for you here, drink the pain away, run to you when you come back, cry when you leave again. And then resign, - what, five years in? – but still do it all over again. I won’t let you decide. _I_ have decided. It’s therapy and meds and staying here. No options. If you can’t handle that, I don’t care. You will go. No choice.” 

“You can talk now. Just don’t say _I’m sorry,_ I’m sick of it.” His tone isn’t sharp anymore. He just can’t listen to Ian apologising again. 

“Okay. Okay, then I won’t say it. – Thank you. So much. You’re not Frank. I don’t know how this happened, how _you_ happened. But – how you’ve been helping me and –. I need to say it, please. I’m so sorry for calling you a faggot, that was such a low blow and so fucking wrong on every level. I don’t know why I did it, I-” 

“You were frustrated. Calm down, I’ve certainly heard it before.” 

Ian huffs. “That just makes it worse and you know it.” 

Mickey doesn’t say anything, but when Ian looks up again, he’s standing right before him. 

“I’m also in on the therapy-and-not-leaving-thing. I know it’s the only way not to fuck myself up even more. It’s just sometimes. I don’t think rationally. At all… You might have noticed.” 

He just gets a snort in response. 

Ian nestles his head on Mickeys shoulder, and some time goes by where they just stand there. Frozen. Not touching or hugging. Just standing. 

“Let’s go sit down somewhere. _My_ back is cramping and I’m not the one being all hunched over to cry on my boyfriend’s shoulder.” Mickey steps back and sits down on the couch. 

His sweater is wet where Ian’s head had rested. That means he really was crying. 

“Okay, even though I hate that couch.” 

“So let’s throw it out. I’m not that much of a fan of it either.” 

They just stare again. And quietly agree: there’s no need to talk about Terry just yet. 

“So you made peace with Svetlana or something?” Mickey raises his eyebrow at Ian. 

“Kind of. She might have agreed on meeting me with Yevgeny tomorrow. You should come. He’s your –” 

“Yeah, my kid. I know.” Holds his hand over his eyes for a second, like he’s trying to forget. “I guess I’m even okay with that now. Will work somehow. Svetlana is a half-decent mother. I will try not to be an asshole. Whatever.” 

After a few minutes of silence they finally relax against each other. 

Then out of nowhere: “We’ll have to do something about Mandy at some point. After the clinic and Svetlana” 

Ian feels Mickey nodding his head. “Mmh. Left her a voicemail today. Maybe she’ll call back.” 

“Yeah… maybe.” Ian doesn’t seem to believe that at all. 

“Told her you left with Monica. She will call back.” 

Ian turns his head, meets Mickey’s look with big eyes. Clinic, Svetlana, Mandy. 

“I love you, Mickey. You know that right?” 

Mickey freezes, then slowly relaxes again. “Yeah. I guess, I do.” Then he sits up and leans over Ian. Kisses him, softly. _He came back._

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't know whether this is OOC or not, because this show isn't making it easy for me to understand what is in Character at the moment.
> 
> I want to add that Mickey's approach of not letting Ian decide whether he wants therapy or not is certainly problematic. I didn't want to portray it as the "right thing to do". It might just be something Mickey does, when he is determined not to let Ian go and wants to help.
> 
> I would be very grateful for feedback.  
> www.manxeau.tumblr.com


End file.
